"Sick! Sick!" Falcon Hamilton had yelled, rising from his table, where along with some other masters he'd been enjoying a hearty fry up of sausage, bacon, tomato and eggs, with a stack of buttered toast and a plate of pancakes on the side. Dressed only in combat trousers and black military boots, the bare-chested major strode over to the counter where Dario was attempting to negotiate alternative eating. Screaming at the Italian, he pointed to a master who was wearing a kilt. "But this is one of Master Lachlan's national dishes! How dare you insult it! Give the plate to me you ignorant piece of shit!"

Stunned, Dario obeyed and handed his plate of steaming gruel to the major. It was tipped onto the floor to create a pool of sludge into the middle of which Falcon stomped a black boot that got speckled in the stuff.

"Now you're going to eat every bit of that," he shouted, stabbing his finger into Dario's perfectly tanned muscular chest. "And if you're sick then you'll eat that as well. You'll clean the floor with your tongue and clean my boot while you're at it. Alternatively you can enjoy some tasty pastries along with a nice frothy cappuccino - but you'll be having those at the airport before catching a flight back to Milan."

It was an early wake up call for everyone. If any of the candidates were under the delusion that Boot Camp Week would be a walk in the park for them simply because they were gorgeous, fashionably stylish and gave good head, or came from exotic places like Milan, then they were quickly put to rights. It was going to be hell, and Dario would be the first to feel a stab from the devil's trident.

The Italian fell to his knees whimpering. "I'm sorry sir," he bleated, hoping for a reprieve. Most of the candidates dropped their eyes - the tension was thicker than the sludge to be eaten.

"And everyone will watch!" roared Falcon to the room. "If you can't see from where you're sitting, then get off your ass and move!"

There was an element of jostling. Rick noted with interest the various reactions - some candidates were reluctant to take in the spectacle, others put on a mask and appeared nonplussed, while a few gathered round for a ringside view slavering like blood-thirsty animals at a kill.

"Start!" Falcon ordered the kneeling man at his right foot.

In his grovelling nudity, Dario croaked out another plea. To his side a blue-eyed blond lad let out a cackle of glee - that was the second mistake of the day.

"Plate!" Falcon yelled at the new offender. The blond looked puzzled, not really understanding. Rick guessed that his English wasn't too good, and made a mental note of this shortcoming.

Bring... me... your... plate!" Falcon slowly stated, gesturing with the words to help the blond understand.

The lad twigged on and moved to obey looking far from happy now that the attention was on him. Rick appraised him as he rose - not quite as hunky as the body perfect Italian, and his pale flaccid dick was nowhere near as big, yet he was still an incredibly horny looking man - like Rick's mischievous cock rising under the table, the competition was going to be stiff!

"And I won't tell you again," Falcon shouted at Dario. "Eat the porridge and clean the floor, or pack up your things and go."

Dario started eating, whimpering as he did so, slurping up some porridge from the canteen floor, gulping it down as he battled not to retch and throw it back up. The blond in the meantime had fetched his plate and stood before the major offering it up. Falcon took it from him and spat in the centre before handing it back to the shocked young man.

"Put it on the floor by my other boot and eat it like a dog feeding from its bowl."

The blond looked puzzled but was quickly enlightened when one of the other masters repeated the order in Russian. To his credit the blond obeyed without any fuss - he got down on his hands and knees to scoff the food like an obedient mutt, grateful for its dinner.